I've Cut it Down to the Really Good Bits
by elbafo
Summary: Response to a challenge issued in the Mrs Hudson's Kitchen forum. A Sociopath, a Doctor, and a Detective Inspector walk into a strip club... One-shot.


**Author's Note:**

This story is in response to a challenge issued by _**johnsarmylady**_ to the ladies in the _**Mrs Hudson's Kitchen**_ forum.

 _ **Challenge:**_ _A Sociopath, a Doctor, and a Detective Inspector walk into a strip club.._ _ **.**_

By coincidence, I was already writing a strip club 'scene' in my very long multi-chapter story "15 Minutes", so rather than pointing everyone to that massive 7K chapter, which includes other scenes, and many other irrelevant bits and spoilers for the entire story, I've extracted a portion of it.

If you already follow me, or subscribe to "15 Minutes", this is a small extract from the latest chapter, _Chapter 38: I've Cut it Down to the Really Good Bits_ , but I've deleted most of the romantic Rose-bits.

Those of you who don't know my writing should know that I write Sherlock/OC romances, so there is an established love-interest in this extract: her name is Rose, and she is a former prostitute. I've removed _most_ of the romantic parts. Still, there is a reason for the boys to go to the club in the first place.

Another bit of background, "15 Minutes" adheres to the show's canon, so this takes place at the end of John's Stag Night, before they end up back in Baker Street playing the Rizla game.

Also, the D.I. wasn't going to make an appearance in my scene, so to conform to the challenge, I've fudged a bit. You'll see!

* * *

 **I've Cut it Down to the Really Good Bits**

At that time of the evening, Sherlock and John had just rounded the corner, having left The Hound and Mortar, where Sherlock had almost got into a fight in the beer garden after insisting to a particularly unimpressed patron that the detective knew _ash—_ all 243 types of tobacco ash, in fact. And furthermore, he knew _ashtrays_.

As Sherlock gazed across Old Street, in Shoreditch, his face lit up in recognition of the strip club, whose neon sign blazed before him like a beacon.

 **R** e n d **e** z v **o** u **s**

And in the haze of Sherlock's inebriation, combined with a Mind Palace operating at only 25% capacity, the letters all rearranged themselves, until four letters stood out, heralding another welcome sign.

 **R** _n v_ **O** _u e_ **S** _d z_ **E**

The detective's eyes widened in recognition. He grabbed his best friend's jacket sleeve and pulled him to the kerb.

"This way, John!"

"Ah, I need to visit the..."

"She's this way!"

"She?"

They crossed the street with John muttering to himself about Sherlock assigning gender pronouns to dunnies. As they approached the club, John noticed a group of men up ahead who were denied access for being too drunk.

"Uh, oh, Sherlock," John warned, his pace slowing.

"What?"

John nodded toward the busy entrance to the club. "We won't get in if we're already intox... intox... drunk."

"Then we'll be fffine," Sherlock responded. He didn't notice that John had to wipe a bit of flying spittle from his face after the detective had spoken. "Ooh!" Sherlock exclaimed, holding out his arm to prevent John from walking further. "Look. Haircut, stance, dog tags, tattoo."

"What?" John asked, following Sherlock's gaze toward one of the bouncers on the door.

"Ex-military," Sherlock replied. "Just let it slip that you're a retired army captain, and you'll be right."

Satisfied that he had facilitated a worried John Watson in gaining entry to the club, Sherlock hung back, letting John do his army thing. When he saw both John and the security guy exchange salutes, he allowed himself a self-satisfied grin. He strode forward, expecting to gain immediate entry himself, when the bouncer held up one hand.

"Sorry, mate. Looks like you've already had enough for this evening," the big man said to Sherlock.

"But I'm..." Sherlock vaguely gestured behind the bouncer to where he could see John Watson standing by the cloakroom waiting for him, shuffling from foot to foot like a toddler in need of the bathroom. Oh, Sherlock realised. John _did_ need to go desperately. Why was the idiot waiting for him then?

"I saw you lurching across the street," the bouncer informed Sherlock. "You stumbled off the kerb. Bit too much to drink?"

"I was merely escorting my..." Sherlock flapped a hand in John's general direction."... colleague. Here..." Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, realised there was nothing in there, then swapped hands to search his jacket pocket instead. He finally retrieved the identification wallet he had been searching for. Flashing an I.D. card and badge at the bouncer, he said, taking care to enunciate his words, "Detective Inspector..." Sherlock raised a fist to his mouth in order to stifle a burp. "... Gregory Lestrade, C.I.D." He then lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. "I need to question your cloakroom attendant, Rosemarie Sulford."

Upon hearing an official title and being shown identification, as well as recognising the name of one of his colleagues, the bouncer stepped aside, giving a brief nod to the 'Scotland Yard D.I.' as he entered the establishment.

Sherlock joined John in front of the cloakroom, but stared in puzzlement at the attendant who was clearly not Rose.

"No, no," John said, grabbing Sherlock by his coat sleeve. "We don't need to check our coats. I just need the loo."

Satisfied that Sherlock was going to follow him into the main room, John released his grip, and strode through the door. Sherlock assumed he'd find Rose out the back having a break, and had swiftly followed his friend.

As attention was fixed on the two strippers in the middle of the VIP area, Rose took this as an opportunity to seek some fresh air. It had been a while since she had ever consumed so much alcohol in so short a period. She stood, wobbled a bit, then navigated past the many legs that were sat around. As she turned toward the doors to the entrance, Rose was startled to see two familiar figures enter the main room. One was shorter than the other, and slightly stockier, and he was making a bee-line for what Rose knew was the corridor leading to the toilets. The other had stopped, his great coat hanging from him as he stood, like a Spencer Hart model, scanning the room.

 _Good God. Sherlock._

Having the effects of alcohol lower her inhibitions and practically obliterate her usual paranoia, Rose strode confidently toward the Consulting Detective. He spied her across the floor, and his face lit up in recognition.

"Rosie!" he exclaimed, striding the last few paces that separated them, before enveloping her in an enormous bear hug.

Rough hands seized Sherlock just as quickly, pulling him from the Rendezvous employee.

"Whoa, whoa!" the detective protested, holding up his hands in surrender.

"It's okay!" Rose called out urgently to Askari, the bouncer, as additional security looked on in interest. "He's a friend!"

Frowning petulantly as the bouncer released him, and flapping out his coat, like a peacock preening, Sherlock regarded Rose through glassy eyes.

"Why are you dressed like that?"

"They're throwing a party for me," Rose answered, displaying a good deal of drunken enthusiasm herself. "I didn't have to work tonight after all!"

"But... you look like a street walker."

A great laugh escaped Rose, and she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Sherlock. "You know these aren't _my_ clothes," she whispered, "but I love it when you talk dirty."

Sherlock beamed, and pressed his forehead against Rose's. "I'm a bit light-headed. That's good I think."

"No, I think you're actually really drunk," she laughed, "but don't worry, I'm a bit tipsy, too."

"No, no. Of course I'm not drunk. I have an app. I've been monitoring."

Sherlock released Rose from his embrace, and fumbled around inside his jacket pocket for his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. As Rose looked on in drunken amusement, Bella, one of the dancers who was currently collecting her floor fee, enthusiastically sidled up to them.

"Who's your friend, Rose?" Bella asked, holding her collection jug in front of her.

"Oh, he's not... don't worry about..." Rose began, stumbling over her words because she wanted to not only preserve Sherlock's anonymity but also to discourage Bella from hustling Sherlock for money.

Sherlock looked up, having successfully located his phone. "Hello," he said amiably.

"Would you like to see me dance?" Bella asked, nodding to the stage area and lifting her jug a little higher.

Sherlock drew his brow down in disapproval. Rose could see his mind at work, and just as he opened his mouth, she cut in. "He's just leaving, Bella. Don't worry about him."

Bella feigned a disappointed pout, and was just about to leave when Sherlock told her, with accompanying waggling index finger, "You know, you don't have to do this."

"Sherlock!" Rose interjected, swiftly shoving his hand back down. She wrapped her arms around Sherlock's, and pivotted him away from the stripper. Calling over her shoulder, she said, "He's from out of town! Don't worry!"

Bella reluctantly left them alone, but forgot the pair the instant she spied a group of raucous males at a nearby table.

"I was going to tell her she was being exploited," Sherlock lamented.

"There's a time and a place," Rose whispered to him. "They'll kick you out if they think you're acting aggressively toward a dancer when they're trying to do their hustling thing. Why are you here, anyway?"

"Because it's your last night, and I didn't want you to go home alone."

It was a combination of Sherlock's puppy dog eyes, and the alcoholic fumes that swam around her head that prompted Rose to grab Sherlock in a rough embrace once more. "You're so thoughtful," she gushed, gazing up at him in awe of his considerate behaviour.

"I know," he replied, bowing his head, and returning Rose's sappy smile with one of his own. "We should go home now… to Baker Street."

"I think I should stay longer to say goodbye to my workmates," Rose replied. "But anyway, isn't… didn't John… ?" Rose frowned in confusion. She was sure she'd seen John Watson enter the club only moments ago. "Sherlock! Where's John?"

"John?" Sherlock repeated. He tilted his head slightly to one side, as his mind navigated through the sludge of his intoxication to find the last known location of the stag. "Oh, pfff," Sherlock replied eventually. "Weak bladder," he replied, flapping a hand in the direction of the toilets. "He keeps needing to go. Oh!" he exclaimed, his eyes widening as he recalled something specific. "I need to log that!"

Sherlock swiftly unlocked his phone, and his face split in two when he caught sight of what was on his screen. He turned the phone around to show Rose. The former cloakroom attendant burst into laughter at the selfie Sherlock had taken of himself and the groom at some stage during the Stag Night.

Sherlock's furrowed brow replaced his mirthful expression as he tried to find the app he was using to monitor his and John's alcohol input _and output_.

"So how did you get John to enter a strip club?" Rose asked, as she watched him in interest.

"Oh, he didn't notice what this club was. He just wanted to use the bathroom. But I wanted to see you."

Rose was quite chuffed that Sherlock had sought her out this evening, and that he knew how important her last night on the job was to her.

"Let's go home," he bid her again, after he put his phone away.

Rose opened her mouth to explain how early it was and about the farewell party once more, when Sherlock's attention was drawn away. John Watson had emerged from the toilets and, recognising Sherlock by his Belstaff, he had made his way over to him. Suddenly the flashing lights on the stage, and the onset of dance music caught John's attention, and the good doctor realised into what type of club the two men had entered.

"Ah, Sherlock," he said, tugging on the detective's sleeve as John stared, mesmerised at the entertainment. "I don't think we want to be in here."

Ignoring John's moment of epiphany since the knowledge of the club being a strip joint was old news to the detective, Sherlock responded with, "John, look who I found! It's... it's..."

John turned his attention back to his friend and the woman who stood beside him. He narrowed his eyes at Rose and took a few moments to consult his own memory banks, as dulled by alcohol as they were. "I know you, don't I?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"It's Rosie, John!"

"Shh-shelley _Something_ ," John murmured, almost simultaneously.

Sherlock snorted in amusement then wrapped a drunken arm around Rose's shoulders. He then prodded John's sternum as he spoke. "That's... her... call... girl... name. _Rude! "_ he finished, pointing his index finger right between Doctor Watson's eyes. "Not _Shelley._ It's Rose!"

The doctor shook his head and blinked confusedly. He thought there was something about this woman in Sherlock's company that was supposed to trouble him. Then he turned to Sherlock and said, "We should go. Er... cab?" and he immediately dismissed Rose from his thoughts.

The ex-army captain about-faced, swayed, then strode to the doorway through to the club entrance, with all the grace of an inebriated man pretending to the world that he was sober. Sherlock grabbed Rose's hand and hastened along after his friend.

"Wait, Sherlock!" Rose hissed, trotting along behind the detective. "I can't go yet."

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning to Rose as they joined John in the entrance.

"I'm having a farewell party," she said, waving a hand back toward the club room. "A party-strip-thing."

John Watson regarded the pair, and noticed the small detail of their hand holding. He hastened forward and pried Sherlock's and Rose's hands apart.

"Oh no, no, no, no," he admonished Sherlock. "You can't take them home with you."

Rose and Sherlock exchanged a look, then both burst into laughter. Sherlock silently doubled over as Rose covered her mouth and turned away, quaking with laughter. John looked from one to the other, absolutely bewildered.

"He thinks... you're a stripper!" Sherlock struggled to say to Rose.

John look on, bemused. He didn't understand the hilarity.

"She's... she's..." Sherlock stammered before being overcome with an attack of the giggles once more.

John grabbed Sherlock's coat sleeve and said to Rose, in a voice of condescension, "S-sorry. My friend has to leave."

He tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, pulling the detective along toward the doors as Sherlock snorted another laugh.

"You can't..." John said, struggling to transport the giggling detective to the kerb. "You can't encourage them," he finished. He waited until they were away from the doors and out of earshot of the bouncers, then added, "They only want your money."

For reasons John couldn't fathom, this remark brought a fresh round of chuckling from the detective-genius. John tried to ignore him, and scanned the length of the road for a cab. He didn't have to wait long. He raised his hand in the air, noting with satisfaction, that a cab was slowing down. Sherlock had finally composed himself, and, seeing that John was hailing a cab, he suddenly shoved his friend aside, sending him sprawling along the footpath.

"I call the taxis!" Sherlock admonished John, and the detective raised a finger into the air to continue signalling the same cab.

John recovered from his fall, and lunged at the Best Man, tackling the lanky bastard to the ground. While the two men were grappling each other on the footpath, the cab driver had second thoughts about picking up a pair of drunken louts outside a strip club, and sped off.

John recovered faster than Sherlock, and stood, swearing under his breath when he saw they'd lost their ride home.

"Dickhead," he said.

Sherlock was busy brushing dirt from his coat, when John raised his hand for the next cab.

"Oh!" the detective exclaimed. "The goodbye!"

John tutted and shook his head, not having a clue what the Great Consulting Detective was on about now. Sherlock strode away from the kerb back towards the club, fluffed his hair with his fingers, and then straightened his coat, popping the collar up in the process.

He gave a vague nod to the same bouncer as before, and disappeared into the club.

John was slouched by the open door of a second cab, almost nodding off when the two bouncers responded to a commotion inside the club entrance. The doctor straightened up and through beady eyes he watched as the bouncers came out again, roughly depositing an indignant detective-genius onto the footpath.

"We have a no touching policy, mate!"

"I wasn't touching _you_ ," Sherlock called back.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John muttered under his breath. The doctor retrieved the unruly detective and steered him toward the waiting taxi. "Get in."

The Rendezvous security personnel watched as the two inebriated men bickered in front of the cab door, before the shorter man pushed the other into the back seat.

As the cab left the kerb and disappeared along Old Street, one bouncer said to the other, "Another seedy copper."

"Yeah. What was his name?"

"Lestrade?"

"That's right. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

.

* * *

 _Extract taken from "15 Minutes", chapter 38._


End file.
